


melancholy, culminating

by smithens



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Bechdel Test Fail, Bittersweet, Canon Era, Cunnilingus, F/F, Post-Canon, Sexual Frustration, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 15:16:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17347550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: It is the evening of the surprise, and Dahlia takes Zéphine into her bed — at least until they are interrupted.





	melancholy, culminating

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mgrbienvenu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mgrbienvenu/gifts).



> Prompt from mgrbienvenu on Tumblr/Ao3: Dahlia/Zéphine, with pillowprincess!Dahlia. Title from the Wraxall translation:
>
>> Zéphine and Dahlia, whom accident had created as a couple necessary to enhance each other's beauty by contrast, did not separate, though more through a coquettish instinct than through friendship, and leaning on one another, assumed English attitudes; the first "Keepsakes" had just come out, _melancholy was culminating for women_ , as Byronism did at a later date for men, and the hair of the tender sex was beginning to become dishevelled.

"My Lord," exclaimed Zéphine, as she lifted her head for breath, "is it always like this, with you? Did your Listolier not ever —"

She felt very suddenly the press of nails into the back of her neck, and with something like a shudder and a cringe in one accepted the hint and resumed her work between Dahlia's legs. The sharp pressure ceased, but was soon replaced with the push-pull of Dahlia keeping her hands in place, twirling her fingers through Zéphine's hair and pressing her head down.

And yet other than the reprimand of tugging at curls or pricking behind her ears, Dahlia hardly moved to facilitate Zéphine's attentions. Indeed, the entire evening she had done little work at all: Zéphine had unhooked her gown at the back and untied the strings of her hat, and even now her stays and worn-out petticoated bodice remained fastened, skirt settling beneath her breasts and around her on the bed. Her hair was pinned pristinely in place beneath a whitework cap, ribbons tucked; she wore still her embroidered stockings.

Her own rolls, Zéphine mused, had come undone hours ago, and her hair would be irreparably tangled by the time — if there came a time, and it seemed there would not! — Dahlia finished. Her dress, bonnet, and undergarments were strewn about the floor and furniture, as she had removed them herself in haste upon their arrival at Dahlia's little garret room.

She had not seen a looking glass since departing Bombarda's, where they were everywhere.

Here, she must have been a sight.

And not once did Dahlia move her hips or arch her back, but she seemed to have no qualms with forcing Zéphine to stay kneeling awkwardly between her knees, using her mouth in a way she had not since — oh, hell, 1814 or so, with another of the laundresses, back when she worked for her living —

"Oh, don't stop _now_ ," Dahlia cried, and Zéphine was roused from her reverie. She lifted her head once more, just enough to gaze at the swell of her breasts and front of her neck, and she said sweetly, "yes, mademoiselle," and then pressed a closed-mouthed kiss to Dahlia's clitoris before once more entering her with her tongue.

This affection was met with another tug of her hair and then an insistent push; Zéphine, feeling — not unpleasantly — as though she might choke, adjusted her position. Her teeth grazed against the outer labia, and it was then that she felt Dahlia's hips move beneath her, and so she butted against her insistent hands to use her teeth upon a far more sensitive spot.

Suddenly she felt the pressure of Dahlia's thighs against her shoulders, and she began to alternate between her teeth and her lips, enjoying despite frustration at her own disregarded arousal that she had after all this power and control. The sensation was exquisite; the taste of Dahlia was in a sinful way intoxicating, and the feeling of those hands against her crown and neck, those hands which had never, it seemed, done work, gave her a thrill.

Again Dahlia cried out, and Zéphine thought, finally, and so she continued as best she could, until —

Zéphine pushed back against Dahlia's hands and gasped for air. By accident, their eyes met, and a soft whimper escaped Dahlia's lips.

Her ordinarily pale cheeks were rosy, and there were beads of sweat upon her brow — but, in a fashion which was characteristic only of her, the curls which framed her face remained flawless.

Zéphine examined, and felt keenly Dahlia's gaze upon her. The pause continued for too long.

Those nails scraped once more at her neck, and Zéphine fell to press a kiss against Dahlia's thighs.

"My Listolier," said Dahlia, voice airy and scornful, "can — could not tell the difference between real pleasure or that which is put upon."

This was a problem Fameuil had shared. Were it not for the rent, board, and fineries she otherwise could not afford, the benefits of being a kept woman more than a mere mistress, Zéphine might not have put up with it — and after all, she had not _always_ been left unsatisfied.

Although after the events of the day, she rather wished she'd tried it on her own again regardless: if only to avoid the disappointment of the unexpected necessity she now faced.

Dahlia petted her, but Zéphine's jaw ached, and though she continued her kisses upon Dahlia's legs, she did nothing more. "Won't you go on, then," Dahlia said, a high tone in her voice.

"I've been at it an hour, I'm exhausted," said Zéphine, and she let herself slump upon Dahlia's hips. "We've been up since four o' clock in the morning, I thought you might be a little easier to please —"

"Oh, clearly you've not minded," and Dahlia scratched at her shoulder hard enough that Zéphine flinched. "I can _see_ you, you know. You've been wet long enough you've stained my bedclothes. I thought you were meant to be eager to please, given how the men spoke — "

"Be quiet; or I shall tell you what I've heard of your fingers. No matter their vulgar talk! they have left us; I much prefer this to a shriveled cock, anyhow."

Dahlia whispered, "and you call them vulgar in the same breath," with some haughtiness. The tone made her shiver, and there was again that pulsing feeling in her gut and between her legs.

It registered in Zéphine that she might be eager to please after all. She hoisted herself up to lay her head upon Dahlia's breasts, feeling the bones of her stays against her ear and cheek, then reached down with her fingers and touched her as she liked to herself, as only a woman could touch another, rubbing her knuckles against the hood until Dahlia pressed herself against Zéphine's palm, and slipping her hand down to slowly hook her fingers inside of her until she had at last wrenched out a true cry of need —

It might have been another hour, or perhaps only some minutes, but at some point, Zéphine felt Dahlia stiffen beneath her, and she transitioned from a lazy, explorative pace to a thrust, grinding the heel of her hand against that pleasurable place; Dahlia cried out, and Zéphine was lifted by the arch of her back, and then there was a sigh, and Dahlia had come.

They were each breathing heavily.

Having thus served, Zéphine felt a tingling feeling inside of her. She was all at once very aware that she was not satisfied.

"Dahlia," she murmured. She extracted her hand from between Dahlia's legs and wiped it upon the sheets, or perhaps the skirt of the bodiced petticoat. "Dahlia."

"Oh, Zéphine," came the reply, and Dahlia hoisted herself up without seeming to care that this would make Zéphine fall. "That isn't even my Christian name."

This was not a conversation Zéphine was prepared to have while desperate for fingers inside of her or a mouth upon her. She propped herself up, and looked Dahlia in the eyes — she was disheveled now, at least, not like some sort of doll as she often seemed to be, although never so much as Fantine — and spread apart her knees.

" _Chrétienne_ , then, surely you won't leave me aching like this?"

Dahlia gave her a sharp look; whether she was more concerned at the mocking interruption or the desire, Zéphine could not tell. "You seemed perfectly able to take care of yourself when we arrived."

Although she felt that she could scream, Zéphine merely huffed, sat back upon her heels, and unabashedly began to attempt to. "Whatever will you do now, that you seem to hate work so and have no student to keep you?"

"Find another, I suppose," replied Dahlia, examining her nails.

Zéphine situated herself against the headboard and tossed her head back, willing that Dahlia show some sign of caring. No touch came, and so she closed her eyes and pressed into her own palm, thinking of Dahlia's touch earlier in the day, at dinner, on their promenade, swinging.

She felt the bed shift beside her. Dahlia had gotten up.

This enraged her, which served only as further motivation, and so she crooked her fingers with more vigor, until —

There was a frantic knock upon the door, and she froze, opened her eyes.

"God, that had better not be my landlord," said Dahlia, who was standing before her wardrobe taking out hair-pins, and in a flurry dropped them all to drape a dressing gown around her shoulders. Zéphine felt like a doe in the presence of a hunter, until she was hit with a dress, thrown from the across the room — Dahlia's, not her own.

The knocking came again. Zéphine dropped her hands from herself, but did nothing else.

"Either cover yourself with the sheet or the gown, or something, goodness, woman — "

"Ladies, I know that you're both in there; don't be coy!"

...it was Favourite's voice.

Breath returned to them both. Dahlia hastily tied the tassels of the robe and went to the door.

Favourite barged in the moment the lock was turned.

"My, what have you been up to," she said, nose upturned, and she took the chair from Dahlia's dressing table and sat upon it, legs crossed at her knees.

"You know very well," said Dahlia. She stooped to pick up the hair-pins, and Favourite laid her shawl across her lap and untied the ribbons of her bonnet.

The day truly was, Zéphine mused, more like a farce than a dream. She let the dress, which she had only just brought to her neck when Favourite had entered, fall to her thighs. It was nothing that Favourite had not seen in the mirror.

Still, she felt immoral when the woman's eyes lingered — perhaps if she'd had a chance to finish, she wouldn't, but the look seemed to pry her open, bare whatever else was hidden in her.

Not much, being nude, probably.

"Bet you wish you'd gone after Fantine sooner, now, don't you," crooned Dahlia, observant, and Zéphine looked to each of the other woman in turn. Favourite was suddenly quite red in the face, and had turned her gaze from Zéphine's bosom to the clothes strewn about the floor.

So they were all prone to these vices.

"I'm not like you," said Favourite, in the least convincing manner Zéphine had ever heard. That was confirmation, indeed.

A pause, between the three of them. Favourite played with the fringe of her shawl, then broke it: "I'm only here to say farewell."

"Is that so!"

"Why, yes, I thought it polite of me. I think I shall return to London."

Zéphine snorted, and Dahlia spoke her thoughts aloud: "really! and with whose coin purse?"

Favourite looked up and grinned at them each. This was met with a roll of the eyes from Dahlia, who had begun to comb out her hair.

"I've a father, you know, a respectable one. He'd loathe to see his reputation tarnished. It is quite simple, really, although I suppose I shall miss my neighbor — the charming thespian who lives across from me, Joséphine, I don't suppose I told you. There is nothing for me here, and English men adore Parisian ladies — the younger ones, anyway. No, I shall take my leave. I even stopped over at the Blonde's, can you believe it? Thought I'd see that off. Heard the little one crying, and likely Fantine herself, too, and felt I'd be sick; couldn't bring myself to knock on the door."

Zéphine swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stared at the top of her knees. The arousal from moments earlier had turned to disgust, a quick, stomach-flipping transition.

"What a scoundrel," she heard herself say, before she could stop herself.

"A tremendous cad," agreed Favourite, "but she was too innocent for her own good. Heaven knows what the poor girl will do now. I don't think she's worked a day since the conception."

"I don't think I have, either," confessed Dahlia, a crack in her voice.

And just like that, Zéphine thought, that confidence in 'finding another' had been stripped. She felt self-satisfied about it, and then guilty. She herself still had references, contacts; even at her age, plenty of houses would take her on as a scullery maid, provide room and board and honest work, should it come to that. For her, not all was lost.

She gathered a sheet around her, looked up again.

"We've got each other, at least," she said, and then, seeing the look on Favourite's face and desiring to avoid a lecture about the way things like this always seemed to play out, added, "for tonight, if not ever again."

"For tonight," repeated Dahlia.

"For tonight!" cried Favourite. "And long live us, with no regard for them."

"None at all," agreed Zéphine, and Dahlia said, "we shall make our way in it," and for the time being, that was that.


End file.
